My Only Prayer
by CrystalxxDreams
Summary: Connor thinks about Angel, and how he should get everything he deserves. Connor's POV. And I am not a fan of Mr. Imsosorry Connor. Please r


Authors Note: the way this fits with the song isn't directly stated all the time, but it's fairly easy to figure out. (I think). If you haven't heard the song, you really should buy the CD. (Silverchair: Neon Ballroom) It's very good. The song is in brackets [ ]  
  
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, ME, UPN and all own Buffy, and Silverchair and co. own the song. I'm not making money, either. Feedback: Constrictive criticism welcome.  
  
Pairing: A/S, sorta.  
  
  
  
The old crypt was dark, and smelt faintly wet. It was more then just a smell. It was the wetness and the staleness that hung in the air. It was that this place hadn't been exposed to the now, and it was an all to painful memory of what had happened, then.  
  
What he had done to her . . .  
  
Oh, how many times had he begged her for forgiveness? He wondered, sometimes, if any of those times were real. The images in his head were clear, sharp and vivid. How much of it was existent he couldn't tell.  
  
He knew he loved her. Once upon a time. But he was a monster and monsters couldn't love. He was evil. She . . . cared about what happened to him.  
  
Maybe he could grab onto that wisp of nothing and everything could be better again.  
  
He was never good enough for her. She cared . . .  
  
She cared.  
  
He cried.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(Millionaire say  
  
Got a big shot deal  
  
And thrown it all away but)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
No one ever taught Spike what to do. What he really needed to learn.  
  
Small virtues he learned, vices he was born with but why didn't Angelus ever tell him it hurt this much?  
  
Why didn't he try to tell him? He had needed him there.  
  
Why didn't anyone tell him how to love?  
  
He was so scared, sometimes. He couldn't stand it. He was loves bitch. He was everyone's bitch.  
  
He crouched down; making traces with his finger in the dust that covered the floor.  
  
The other hand was grabbing his head. Gods, it hurt so much. The voices made him hurt so much.  
  
It felt like a huge part of him was missing. Gone. And he was a bad person because of it. Everything good about him, his emotions, was gone. He didn't want to feel. He couldn't love.  
  
There must have been something somewhere. He must have made one wrong move. Somewhere in his life and, later, his death he messed up. Whatever he built up was always crashing down.  
  
He couldn't screw up, ever.  
  
  
  
(But I'm not too sure how I'm supposed to feel  
  
Or what I'm supposed to say but)  
  
  
  
How did Angelus make it through every second? The dizziness and the madness that consumed all you had, how did Angelus make it?  
  
"You get used to it, boy," a voice answered.  
  
"Angel," Spike said, licking his lips slightly, eyes begging.  
  
Angel was sneering slightly as he watched Spike. There was no pity on Angel's face, just a brick wall, "Buffy asked me to come."  
  
Spike laughed, dry and hollow, "The slayer. The slayer needs to mind her own fucking business."  
  
Something flashed in Angel's eyes, but it died in a second.  
  
"She's worried about you. Though I don't know why," Angel responded, "You deserve this."  
  
Spike didn't bother with an insult, but hung his head. All around him wasn't real and he was empty. There was only pain.  
  
  
  
  
  
(I'm not, not sure  
  
Not too sure how it feels  
  
To handle every day  
  
And I miss you love)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Angel laughed bitterly, "You know it, Spike. You know you deserve this."  
  
Spike looked up, meeting Angel's eyes for just a second before breaking away, "I'm sorry," he whispered.  
  
He didn't need to see what Angel was doing. He could feel the movements his sire was making from across the room. He could feel he eyes burning into him. Angel laughed again, reminding Spike of Angelus, "Sorry? Was I this pathetic?"  
  
"Angelus," Spike said, and a part of him hated to here him this begging, "please."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(Make room for the prey  
  
Cause I'm coming in  
  
With what I wanna say but  
  
It's gonna hurt  
  
And I love the pain  
  
A breeding ground for hate but)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Please what, Spike? Help you? Take you back?" Angel walked slowly over to where his childe sat. He crouched down, tilting Spikes head up with his finger until the blue eyes where locked onto his own. Angel moved his head a little closer until his mouth was only inches from Spike.  
  
Spike closed his eyes. 'Gods, make it all go away,' he prayed to no one, 'make him go away.' He could feel Angel's breath whisper onto him lips as he spoke. "Poor little Spikey," Angelus taunted, "poor little Spikey doesn't know what to do."  
  
"It hurts," Spike said before he could help himself. 'Damn you!' he screamed in his head, though he didn't know to whom, 'DAMN YOU!' "It hurts," Angel repeated, making his voice match Spikes tone, "Want me to make it all better?" Angel was slowly filling the gap between them.  
  
  
  
('m not, not sure  
  
Not too sure how it feels  
  
To handle every day  
  
Like the one that just passed  
  
In the crowds of all the people.)  
  
  
  
  
  
'No. No. No! Go away and leave me alone! Fuck you, Angelus!' "No, Spike," Angel's voice was low and contemptuous, and as if he could read his mind he said, "Fuck you." Angel's lips were on his. Forcing and mocking. For a second Spike felt like giving in. Angel . . . Angelus . . . Spike pulled away, dragging his legs to his chest like a frightened child, "No."  
  
"No?" Angelus asked, his voice making fun of him with every word, "Don't you want help, Spike?"  
  
"No," Spike said, moving away from Angel until his back was pressed against the wall of the crypt, "No."  
  
Angelus laughed, "I thought you were asking for my help," he said, an epitaph of a sneer on his face. Spike's head fell back, hitting the wall, "No," he repeated. Angelus was beside him now. How the fuck did he move that fast . . . Spike almost shivered as he felt the vampires fingers brush over the scar on his neck. Spike kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to be here, to see this to feel this. He didn't want to be a part of this. However, Spike couldn't get his body to pull away.  
  
Angel must have felt that. Spike felt his sire laugh.  
  
There must have been a time when it didn't hurt this badly. Spike couldn't remember it, though. There must have been a time when this was simpler.  
  
  
  
(Remember today  
  
I've no respect for you  
  
And I miss you love.)  
  
  
  
He kept his eyes closed.  
  
"Spike," Angelus whispered. "Go away," he said him and to the voices and to the images and to everything. He used to love Angelus. Oh, gods. Angelus was smirking. He was enjoying this. Spike had always loved him. The love that had blurred into hate and lust and passion . . . But this wasn't real. This wasn't right.  
  
"Spikey," the voice mocked.  
  
Maybe if he closed his eyes tight enough and stropped thinking it would all go away. There was no such thing as love. The emotion he called love had ruined him. With Cicely, with Angelus, with Dru and with Buffy, his obsession with this thing called love had ruined him. 'Goawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoaway,' Spike thought, his words blurring.  
  
  
  
(I love the way you love  
  
But I hate the way  
  
I'm supposed to love you back  
  
It's just a fad  
  
Part of the... teen... teenage angst brigade and)  
  
  
  
'GODS MAKE IT STOP!' They never heard him, if they even existed. They might have not. They never listened to his prayers. He was damned. He was evil. Angelus was laughing the whole time. Angel. Angel was sneering and laughing.  
  
Gods he hated him. None of this was real. None of this could be real.  
  
  
  
  
  
(Remember today  
  
I've no respect for you  
  
And I miss you love.)  
  
  
  
Somewhere, sometime Angel left. Spike laid there his eyes closed. Angelus. That wasn't Angelus. But Spike kept his eyes closed. Maybe it wasn't real.  
  
Maybe everything was fake. Maybe he wasn't real. None of this pain was real.  
  
He wasn't dying again. Nothing was real. The seconds laughed at him, all of them carrying their tiny eternity. He would get up soon. Get up soon.  
  
Find no dust disturbed. Find that none of it was real. That none of it was real . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(Remember today  
  
I've no respect for you  
  
And I miss you love) 


End file.
